


beneath the heavy current

by yakyuu_yarou



Category: The Silt Verses (Podcast)
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Touching, POV First Person, Religious Fanaticism, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28920465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakyuu_yarou/pseuds/yakyuu_yarou
Summary: Faulkner has some doubts about the surety of Carpenter's faith. He decides to intervene.
Relationships: Carpenter (The SIlt Verses) & Faulkner (The Silt Verses)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	beneath the heavy current

**Author's Note:**

> Someone had to get the fandom started, and I thought I'd do it in style!
> 
> Title taken from — what else could it be — _Sons & Daughters_ by The American Spirit, a literal drowning song.

I wonder, sometimes, if Carpenter’s aware of how much I watch her. If she’s aware of just how much of her I can _see_ , oily currents swirling just beneath a storm-cut surface.

There’s a lot there; she’s not as hard-shelled as she thinks she is: her doubt is obvious if you meet her eyes for long enough, as is her determination to somehow overcome it once you’ve noticed that the twist of her mouth is more than just resentment of anyone and everyone who dares to disbelieve.

I used to think that twist was there because of me; I know better now.

One might think, from these observations, that I’ve been watching Sister Carpenter a little too closely — but really, there’s nothing (and, more importantly, _no-one_ ) else _to_ watch while we’re out on the road. Certainly not the radio, heretical thing that it is, nor the iron towers.

So I’ve been watching, and I’ve made a decision.

* * *

Faulkner’s been quiet all day, and I don’t trust it.

It was nice at first, of course, to be temporarily (?) free of his chipper questions and clumsy attempts at bringing us closer together. To finally have time to _think_.

But it’s been hours; we’ve parked the van and found a room — _a_ room, this time, the tiny hotel almost entirely booked because of some sort of conference in town —, and Faulkner is still quiet. He’s barely said a word since we arrived, just slid onto his bed with his knees drawn up and the chalkboard propped up on them.

The sound of the chalk is predictable, almost lulling.

I still don’t notice when it stops. Not immediately — not quickly _enough_ , because the moment its absence begins to grate on my already-strained nerves, there is a scarf wound tightly around my wrists, knotted only when it almost hurts.

My wrists … which Faulkner is holding.

“Get off!” I demand, but my voice isn’t as sharp as I want it to be. Faulkner’s aware; I can see it in the shadow of a smirk tugging at his mouth, an expression that’s both shockingly different from and startlingly similar to his normal carefree-seeming smile.

Currents take me, why didn’t I say _let go_?!

Because Faulkner doesn’t let go and doesn’t get off. Instead, he sits down on the bed next to me, smiling that tiny smile, and says, “No, Sister Carpenter. I think I’m going to stay right here, and you know why? ‘cause _you_ need my help.”

I open my mouth to protest — of course I don’t! He needs mine, if anything! — but Faulkner doesn’t give me time.

“You’re _shaken_ , Sister Carpenter. Uncertain. Not of your faith, don’t worry, I don’t think _that_ ; no. You’re uncertain of your place in all of this, aren’t you?”

I am, of course. It’s been plaguing me for days — longer than that, really, but I can admit that even less than I can admit that I’m less than sure at all.

My mouth snaps shut, and Faulkner nods. His little smirk doesn’t widen at all, doesn’t even shift, and I’m not sure if that’s not worse than if it had.

“Yeah, thought so. So what you’re going to do is just sit there, sit _still_ , and be quiet. Watch me do what I’m about to do, recite the prayers in your head, and _feel_ your faith.”

I want to fight him still — he’s a small thing, thin; even with my hands bound I could overpower him —, but somehow, for some reason I can’t find inside myself, I don’t.

Perhaps it’s something in his eyes; perhaps it’s the strange swooping hooking itself into my gut and _tugging_ hard at me.

If I were standing, it’d sweep my feet out from under me, and the knowledge makes me shiver even though I try not to.

I do not nod; Faulkner doesn’t need me to. He’s already reached into his jacket pocket and drawn out a knife, an old thing with a handle made of bleached-white bone that should, I think distantly, have prayer marks carved into it.

It doesn’t seem to, but it might not need them; not when the gleam in Faulkner’s bright eyes is _dark_ now, depthless and churning.

I fall still.

Faulkner raises the knife with one hand; with the other, he carefully rests the downturned backs of my bound hands on top of his bony knee, then reaches further to carefully push up, then fold up one of my sleeves.

I watch him, more than just transfixed. I _cannot_ look away; can’t speak, can barely think because there is a low, rhythmic rush-and-ebb in my ears that soothes me, somehow.

And I keep watching as the knifetip lowers to rest against my upturned wrist, light as a feather (he seems more skilled with this than he should be, but I cannot care), and I keep watching as it slowly sinks through, gradually enough to almost make it feel like a caress. But the way the crashing waves in my mind grow louder makes it clear that it is _more_ , that the pain I am beginning to feel a few beats after he has made the first cut is mine, yes, but it is not for me.

I am hurting for my Trawler-Man. I am being cut open for my Trawler-Man.

The pain spreads from my wrist to the rest of me, through my chest and my gut and my mind, rolling through me like waves as Faulkner finishes the first prayer mark — _devotion_ — and moves on to a second that will soon reveal itself to be _eternity_.

Time falls away; reality falls away: all that remains is Faulkner and his knife and our faith, the Trawler-Man’s presence like a noose of drowning rope around my chest.

In the depths of it all, I remember my purpose.

— fin —

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading; I hope you enjoyed 💙


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